2017-09-10 - Family Reunion
The bunker. The private abode of one of the top handful of infiltration specializing assassins on earth, David Cain. Not a whole lot has changed over the years from the outside. Glass doors that some might know to be blast proof, but appear to be French style sliding doors. Marble floors where once was hardwood, an update to match the counter tops. An open bar with displayed vintages, the selection would be appreciated by visitors with noteworthy bank accounts. The entire affair is spacious, and an observant eye might notice something mildly curious in what passes for a living area. Beneath the couch is a next generation personal computer with a J Tech VR headset atop it, the latest model. The living area is illuminated by a flatscreen TV panel whose screensaver function is a fireplace, all this below a daisho display. Behind the large affair that can only be imported from Japan is the concealed entrance to the bunker proper below. Here is where things might get curious. It truly is a bunker, but there is also nostalgia abound for some. Blueprints of notable locations around the world are framed. There is an armory of next generation firearms and scopes, as well as classics. A fifty yard firing range occupies the lion's share of this adjacent to a fully stocked gunsmith's working area. Here is where skin might crawl. In this working area is a board covered with pictures of Cassandra in and out of uniform. There are even pictures of her with Laura and Konner. Exactly when and how did he take these? Who can say, but not all of them are recent. Most of them aren't, in fact. It is down here that the resident can be found. One David Cain, a man who once made men nervous with but a mention. He has long since been all but washed up in the eyes of most, for it has been years since he has done a serious job as far as anyone knows. Word is he is more of a consultant for hire now. Clearly he has other hobbies, however. One of the three, count it three, people on earth still alive who know of this place approaches. Many would give their lives to find out about it; David Cain is a hunted figure, and the information in this place could end dynasties, but the thing about the internet is that if the information simply does not exist, then it can not be found. Everyone who ever worked on, trained in, or heard of this place is dead. Except for the Batman, David Cain... And Cassandra Cain. Taking the chance that her hand will still open her old home, Cassandra tries to slide open the door. She knows that the alarms will alert him. There's no way that he isn't here, and the alarms were always a failsafe anyway. Neither one of them ever needed them. She pulls on the door, to come inside. Where the devil awaits. Her father. David Cain does indeed have a top notch security system. He designed it, he would know exactly how good it is being a man feared for bypassing the security of some of the most heavily guarded locations in the world in his day. A man who crossed swords with the Terminator in his youth and walked away equal. David has more than cameras watching. He has seismic and audio sensors, and his cameras watch in multiple spectrums. He knows when footsteps and vehicles approach long before they get in range of cameras that record around the clock and inform him whenever someone is detected. A sliding panel next to his work area opens with a flat touch screen showing him the approaching Cassandra, who has likely managed to avoid most of the nastiness on the approach only to be detected when she approaches the door. At first, the door won't give for her. It's electronically locked. It doesn't open for anyone. However, upon seeing who it is, a tiny green light flickers over the locking mechanism acknowledging and welcoming her. The tiny smirk on Cassandra's lips is almost ironic. She knew he was here, and here he is already. Just the way we always were, talking with the tiniest things. Nobody else understood how much could be conveyed with a simple green light. An eyeblink. A bullet in a different part of her leg than the last one, telling her that she did well this time so he won't hurt her as much as he could. She doesn't make any noise, a gift in return. She knows that he's probably hung over. But things can never be the same as they were, and she looks for the traps. She doesn't look for a way out; there can be no way out for her this time. No, she's here to the end. Come out, Father. The first would be a gimme. The little red light at ankle level just past the entrance of the door that only amateurs would miss. The over excited who think they've gotten somewhere, or who got complacent at the last moment. The second would be the soft hissing from the camera near the open bar as it fires a dart at her. Either way, the welcome reception commences and he watches below in between tidying up. David's living area above is the sort of spotless that comes from virtually no time spent there. This would be obvious right away. The glass top stove doesn't even have a grease spot on it. Either he is still relentlessly OCD, or he doesn't even prepare his food up there. Both could be possible. Stepping over the red light is almost unconscious, but the girl knows that things move in waves. Making her raise her leg here puts her into this position, and that means her targets are here, here and here. She covers one of them with an elbow, the other is taken care of with a slight pause...and then her hand plucks the dart out of the air. Cassandra shakes her head, then steps to the camera and looks inside...as she reaches up and re-loads the dart launcher, so anyone silly enough to follow her in will be given the present they deserve. When she reaches in to do so however she must naturally vanish from camera view, and she moves. Fast, through the living area, she slides across the countertop and off the other side, wrist shields up to guard her face. And yes, she definitely does look down before planting her feet. The only problem is with the first idea after avoiding the amateur hour of the dart gun and tripwire is the door sliding shut behind her the moment she vanishes from camera shot. Darts are flying in the dark from two other cameras to keep her entertained, the security system automated to do so unless deactivated. The master of the house has no inclination to deny himself a good show. The real danger isn't from below here. Yes, the occasional foot spike slides up through the imperceptible hole in the granite. Such dangers are barely visible in the halflight, but would cripple most. Anyone who made a nasty mess in such a tidy home would deserve what happened next in this home. No however, this isn't the real danger. The real danger is in the tiny tingle that occurs in the back of Cassandra's nostrils and subtle burning in her eyes. The telltale beginning of teargas filling David's hermetically sealed home. Knowing him, this isn't the cheap storefront tear gas that SWAT deploys to disperse rowdy mobs in downtown New York or Gotham. This is the sort that is used by the Army to put down demonstrations in Baghdad that will make someone drown on their own snot if they don't clear out, and might make them choke out even if they do. The clock has started. The first tiny hints of tingling are noticed. Cassandra isn't stupid, and this is her home as much as it is his. He may have made some changes, but you can read a person in how they do things. She slipped in the nose filters while she was stepping over the first beam. The eye covers weren't long after, roughly when she was sliding over the countertop. But she knows that it won't be that simple. It wouldn't have been if it were her doing the setup. She also notices that he's being gentle with her. This could be far worse. She's seen worse, and she's helped him set up worse. So what is he trying to say? The little smile she gets on a split-second camera image tells him everything. She's playing the game, without cheating. For him, one more time. Rolling past two layers of lasers, the kind that cut off your tendons and leave you to bleed out on the quick-wash porcelain floor, she leaps upward to rebound off of the roof. The impact tells her many things about the room's setup; what is likely to be inside that surface, how it moves. She's already tested the floor and most of the appliances. What, you didn't think she was doing those flashy moves for no reason at all did you? Then she slaps her heel into the wall that contains the exit, trying it for access points. He taught her all of these tricks, but who else could do them? Or leave a dent in the wall with the kick. Going for the exit is the smart choice for anyone. Being hermetically sealed, even the nose filters won't help for long as there is no fresh air coming in. His home is a roach motel for trespassers of any stripe. Fortunately, there isn't the soft hum of air being pumped out as the haze of tear gas thickens. The panel will open after a few attempts at finding it. The TV back into the wall, then slides up revealing an elevator only big enough to accomodate maybe a few people at a time. A familiar voice heralds... "Welcome home, Cassandra. It's been too long." She stands in the elevator, knowing she's reached the checkpoint. She's not 'in', she didn't earn that, though she points before she goes anywhere. There, and there. The places that the gas is coming in through. She could have done something to stop them but did not, but that doesn't mean she doesn't deserve the points for beating the trap. Then leans back in the elevator, tapping her left toe and crossing her arms. You said that already, dad. Words are silly. They might be silly, but he feels obligated nonetheless. Sentimentality. It's what landed him in retirement, and now that he's there he might as well indulge it. David has been keeping track. It's his duty has the judge in this exercise, he'd be remiss not to. He has something in hand as he sits at his work bench, waiting for the door to open, which it will in proper time. A ninjato, and it's laid across his lap as he closes the wall panel to turn his work stool to face where she'd be stepping out. David is clad in his old gear. The same that he wore back in the old days. A nine millimeter is holstered at his side, even. His expression is neutral, though his eyes betray what his stern features hide. No tricks. Cassandra can see four ways out of the elevator that she missed the last time she was here. Well, time and experience make you grow apparently. But no, no tricks. Her feet are on the elevator floor when it opens, and she is not visibly armed. When her eyes lower into view, she's staring with the ten thousand yard stare that he knows so well. She wore it in the cradle, this one. Then she steps out, her hands open and empty. Not that that ever mattered, if she was giving up she'd be holding a weapon. Empty hands are when she's most lethal. David is as dangerous a man as there ever was with that sword across his lap. Even sheathed, with him plainly softened over the past few years from drink and self pity it'd be the last mistake one could make for most to try him. By the way his hands are rested across it however, he has no intentions of taking up the black handled and sheathed weapon. Whatever that sheath is made of, it looks like the inky darkness of the yawning deep itself. To compare it to the night sky on a new moon night doesn't do it justice. It might actually make someone uncomfortable to look at it too long. David is doing his best to be stoic, but his eyes still betray something. Frustration. Regret. Bitterness. All the while he has no trouble staring right back. He knows there's a reason she's here, even if he doesn't know what it is. He knows her well enough, but he isn't psychic. That's the friends of that clawed girl Cassandra pals around with. Yes, he has a picture there of Cassandra and Laura on top of that rooftop with her cutting away. David doesn't bother speaking. His eyes say all he didn't say over the intercom. You never call, you never write. I know you've had better days. The glance at the weapon is automatic. She sits down, instead of attacking. Lets out her breath instead of taking up the sword. All things that say legions. She isn't here to take him in. I don't forgive you. We can talk anyway. Then she speaks, using the voice he didn't give her. "You made me wrong." The sound of her voice for the first time ever, an accusation in these corridors. The halls where she was forged. Shot. Stabbed. Brought back anew, and given strength. Wrong. She can't keep up with them, can't go higher. There's no way up, her eyes say. I can't grow any more, daddy. Help me. "They have something that I don't. I'm not enough." David's expression is surprisingly...predictable. Surprise. That's the last thing he expected, her to come asking for help. It's almost incomprehensible to him after all these years of watching her. David responds, features faulted all the while,"And...what precisely is that?" If he knows about the Cat, he hasn't figured on that being why she's here. Or otherwise he maybe just wants to hear it from her? More likely the former. The surprise makes her smile. She can still surprise him, it seems. But if she knew how to define it in the silly word-things she'd have fixed it ages ago. Useful tools, but not as strong as they seem to believe they are. The language that she uses is the problem though, so she takes a breath and tries. Maybe he'll understand. "I lose. Against people, not gods. The reading you gave me is not perfect, some can see past it and use it against me. I can handle those, I learn to lie. Some can see past it and use it as well. I handle those, I learn to lie to myself. But some, some few..." She pauses then, not sure how to explain. About the ones who have nothing to read. How do you fight, then? She hopes he can see it. David knits his brows, as he contemplates on her words he formulates the situation she is dealing with. A hand drums its finger on the impossibly black sheath of the ninjato as if teasing a piece of the abyss itself. After some moments, David's eyes become piercing as he expresses in a tone that is almost accusing in how direct it cuts across,"You want to know why you lost to the Cat, and how not to lose again." Her eyes meet his, finally. Which is all they say. Finally. Yes. Why is this happening to me? The things that all teenagers say when they realize that life isn't fair. Time to grow up. Choose to become more. And when they decide that their parents may not have been entirely wrong. She sees that he knows. The small nod is all she needs to give. To her, it's all the words in the world. And an agreement, to what he didn't say. There will be a cost. David nods in response to hers, there's not much more that can be said. He could tell her exactly why she lost in half a dozen ways even though he wasn't there for that one, but that'd be cheating. Assuming she understood him, or didn't zone out on him in the process. Instead, David's eyes will darken as he raises his chin to appraise her as if sizing something up. Or weighing some inevitable set of choices. "There are several reasons. Shen Kuei...is not your mother. That's the first. The rest...you pay me for. Not with money." The internal war that's been going on in Cass' eyes since she ran away is still there. "No," she says. "Not kill." She'll die first, but she'll die not knowing. That's the limit, she won't break it for herself or for him. They're negotiating now, and he needs to know how far she'll go. Though what he said makes sense. It's what happened after all. Mother, when they fought, gave her time to speak first. To learn how she moved. That's why she won. Cat didn't give her anything at all. David narrows his eyes in an ever so subtle fashion. He'd never gotten her at the bargaining table, so this was fairly novel to him and he clearly meant to make the most of it. What can't be missed is how quickly he adjusted to this turn of events. He'd prepared for it somehow. David counters her hard line without skipping a beat,"You don't have to kill. You watch me do it. No interruptions. Everything." Cassandra knows when a person is lying. Also, when they're telling the truth. This hurts. She can't decide, but she has to decide. This goes beyond her, and to someplace she shouldn't go. He won't change his price, this is what it costs. NOT saving someone is the same thing as killing. Maybe she can find a way to... "Yes," her betraying lips say. Too late. She's done it. There are some things you can never go back on. -------- Fast forward into the not too distant future, David and Cassandra have departed on his personal jet and landed in Hong Kong. David is on the prowl for a woman code named Marque. A curious name, referencing the paste scraped from the bottom of the pestle after an herbalist has crafted their admixture. An alchemist's marque, as it were. Tracking her has been a likewise curiously simple task. Supposedly this woman is a rising star in the assassin's community who favors knives as her weapon of choice. Cassandra has had time to think. That's not a good thing in this situation, and she's slowly wringing the complimentary hand towel into shreds. It is possible to wring a towel to shreds, but it requires a lot of work. She's had a lot on her mind, and her body reflects it. For someone like David Cain, she's remarkably easy to read. Knives aren't an issue. Being an assassin isn't an issue. She's actually scared of what she'll learn here, and her head isn't in the game. David is the picture of composure, on the other hand. Part of him doesn't quite know what to think about his first father and daughter outing in years. His second chance to show her how it's done, and he doesn't want to screw it up after being out for so long. This could be his renaissance, or his biggest screw up. He means to make the most of it either way as he adjusts the jacket he wears over his tactical vest for public eyes. The rest of his gear is in the briefcase he carries. David hails a luxury ride for the two of them into downtown. A rickshaw, a novelty exclusive to the east. Might as well. He actually spares a grin as he climbs in for the ride to their target destination. At that, Cassandra raises an eyebrow. She doesn't know Hong Kong well enough, but she at least looks like she fits in here. He however stands out like a tourist. Nice to be on the other end for a change. That at least lets her calm enough to put down the complimentary towel and climb into the rickshaw. She touches her hip, telling him that she's ready with the grapple if necessary. Yes dad, I'm here. Relax. It's possible she was reading his worries, he was never able to hide anything from her. Something she only managed to do once herself. David studied body reading, where she was born into it. It doesn't surprise him at her occasional secrets. He holds his briefcase in his lap, refusing to part with it. Within are his broken down swords and rifle. He always travels prepared. Within his left hand sleeve is a hold out .45 in case of an emergency even, though from the way he carries himself it is almost impossible to tell. Remarkable, given the weight of the weapon. David chuckles at Cassandra, whether genuine or an affect for the public is equally probable. His attention halfway diverts to the city itself. He hasn't been here since Cassandra last was, and things have changed. British flags haven't been so prominent in nearly a century, a sign of the times perhaps. Likewise, the city has come along in other ways. His jaw is set as they near their destination. Old habits. Cassandra knows from his jawline that they're almost there. This isn't a pleasure trip; it never was, not once, and she was silly to think so for even a moment. This man is not good, and he's the one she hates. It's so tied up in her head, how she thinks. That killing is the easy way out, but it's also the hardest. She's afraid of it still, after that one time when she made it happen. This shouldn't be happening, she can't watch him kill someone. Yet there's something that suggests she's missing part of the point. So she keeps her hands clamped tight over themselves, knuckles white, and waits. This isn't her show, and she knows it. She's the entire audience of one, a grand performance for the child of a god and an old man who's gotten tired. At least he's sober. David is stone cold sober. Likey for the first time in recent memory. The driver lets them off and he cheerfully pays the bill in fluent mandarin before leading them to an open air restraunt. His eyes are alive as he gestures to folk musicians playing by a balcony like something from an older asian cinema film. Yes, perfect tourist moment. Unfortunately, that tourist moment is the bait. Neither could miss the attention drawn. Only one person, but his gesture is in the right direction to guide attention towards her. The hateful recognition is plain as if scrawled in neon. David's cheerful affects have to be like salt. On to the alley. Hong Kong is notorious for them. Cassandra knows. She can see it in this woman for the instant that the hate overwhelms her control, that she'll be in the alley in a moment. Not that she needed to read this one. Simple logic could tell this much. Lesson one. Reading is not a substitute for your brain. It's true, though. The alleyway feels like there is someone there even before the pair step into it. This level of person, well...Cassandra could have done it, so she expects to see those dark hate-filled eyes waiting for them. She could not have been more wrong, as the air shifts above them. Above him. David looks down at Cass, a grey brow arching slightly as he offers while working the lock on his briefcase,"Now, on to the work. It won't be long." Marque was in street clothes at the restraunt. Her only change would be adding a red scarf over her facial features for the simple fix of anonymity. A pair of butterfly knives aren't far from hand. David would kneel then to open his briefcase. From therein he'd withdraw a collapsed ninjato. The relatively small variation on the sword is precision manufactured like all of his weapons, and is assembled into proper fashion in moments. The Grey Dragon isn't out of practice in everything. Cassandra knows. Some things you don't lose, not if you plan to survive. She expected to have seen her by now. That leaves up, back the way they came, and from the entrances to the alleyways. Through the walls is a possibility, but he's not left himself close enough to offer that opportunity. The same habits she uses all the time, replicated in another person. She both hates it and admires it at the same time, the dychotomy that she tries so hard to defy. And a black boot steps into the alleyway. This one wants it to last, or is so confident she isn't bothering to hide. And a voice says, "I didn't expect you to make it so easy, Father." Which rocks Cassandra on her heels. David rises to his feet, twirling the familiar weapon to retrieve the old feeling of the light weapon. He regards his second born with cold eyes matching the rest of him as he replies evenly,"Only finding me. I promise. The rest you have to earn." The Grey Dragon then snaps the weapon firmly into grasp as he begins to stride evenly towards her. Simplicity itself in his advance. Only purpose. Forward with weapon in hand. He knits his brow as he sets to doing what he came here to do. "Is this her?" she asks, glancing past him for an instant. She has knives ready, but without form. Giving nothing; a statue. She is water, for all that Cassandra can read in her. "Ah. You wouldn't believe the things he says about your potential," she starts to say, then she's moving to meet him. But the hands do nothing, giving no warning at all. Until it's too late. Cassandra, wanting so badly to know so much more than she'll have time to learn, cries to step forward. Real tears, she somehow knows how this will end already. Because the flow is a different thing than reading moves, and this fight can only end one way. Lesson two. David is a diamond in the rough. That's what happens when a master falls from grace. They miss a step here and there. That said, he is still dangerous. The Grey Dragon still has fangs. His blade dances back and forth, singing as he parries one stroke and then another. He chose a small weapon with reach for this reason, he knew this would be a tight fight and it can defend at her range. David wouldn't look back. His focus will be iron clad in this fight. It will either bis rennaissance or his fall. The old man either has it or he doesn't, but this is his real failure and he means to resolve it here. She's young. Young and has that advantage on him, and she's learned as much as Cassandra has about fighting. When did he have time to make another of her, she'll never know; she thought he was in prison all of this time. Clearly not. Unless they've started allowing crazy-ass assassin visits. But no, her attention is not fully on him. She's curious about Cassandra, and while the dance she's doing with her father is fueled by hate she has enough to spare for her as well. So the knives occasionally reflect Cassandra's face, her eyes, and she grits her teeth in that reflection. Marque. But David can sense that there's something building. She's here to hurt him first, and the target isn't just him. It's anything that he loves. She's testing him, to see if he loves her. Too bad she hides it so well, or a master body reader like Cassandra would know. Which, in her eyes, she does. She can see that this is going to be more, but she swore not to interfere. David narrows his eyes as he matches her advance. Her cuts pass his defense her and there, but he's muscular and wearing a jacket over tactical gear. He's protected from the odd cuts here and there. His blade is dedicated to the worst of her attacks meantime. David is keen on her. He sees her divided attentions, and only one other is here. He'll shift the game on her to rectify that with a swift leg kick to the side of her knee. Knife fighting is dangerous enough, dual wielding off balance is suicidal. "Pay attention girl." It's enough. She gave him the knee to let her stab the back of his hand. This girl is only readable when she wants to be, and that's a tool as well. She lets herself be read sometimes, but only long enough to give the opponent an opening. It too is a tool, if you can learn to use it. Lesson three. But it did cost her balance, and Marque is forced to roll and flip. Acrobatics that would make Grayson raise an eyebrow, performed in an instant without thought. And her mind is on Cain, paying attention to her father the way he said. Too bad it's the last thing he wants if he plans to live another moment, as the knife spins in high. The Grey Dragon rears its head in truth. His old instincts are beginning to resurface. The blade singing in at his face triggers his pistol hand into action, and the concealed weapon slips to his palm as it raises to fire and knock the weapon from flight. The second tap of the trigger sends a bullet flying at her along the same trail. David's grey eyes are ablaze. He knows their training, and isn't going to trust a well aimed shot to be enough. That hesitation is fatal. A lesson in and of itself, never trust to just one tactic no matter how sound. Be versatile. For him, that means launching with a solid heel at her with blurring speed right after his defensive and counteroffensive gunshots. Then both of them stop. Cain's hand is kept from killing her, and her knife is kept from the same. Both of them stopped cold by pure strength born of will, of a person nearby born to keep this from happening. To save someone from death, and who stepped forward to break her vow to her father. As Cassandra Cain's immensely powerful hands hold each of theirs in iron, having come out of nowhere, unreadable. To keep their deadly weapons from slaughter, with her eyes blazing fire. And Marque smiles at Cain, seeing the situation. Her other hand, unfettered, with the hidden knife she kept in her sleeve buried in his heart. "Nice try," she gives the kid. But her attention is on her dear old dad. Was that good enough for once, old man? And so, the Grey Dragon fulfilled his purpose in spite of all best efforts to the contrary. Which set of eyes he sees last is anyone's guess as they are cold in truth long before he hits the earth. A knife to the heart is nigh instant.David sighs as slumps sideways from Cassandra's block, the strength fading from his impressive stature as if someone flipped off a switch. All purpose erased. His expression in death is determination. The look of someone who still has something to prove. If he even felt it is as much a guess as who he looked to last. Marque shakes off Cassandra's grip. It doesn't take much, given the way she's going slack and useless there. She grins at the new girl, then says, "Thanks. Couldn't have done it without you," and then she's gone into the Hong Kong night. A flashing pair of boots in the darkness. As Cassandra Cain attempts to grasp her final lesson. In the expression of the man she killed.